


Eccedentesiast

by isa_belle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Pepper Potts Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Sorta sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:02:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: If he could do it, I can do it. That’s what I tell myself when I’m isolating my emotions, ignoring them as they try to catch up to my rapid pace. When they gain speed, I break into a run. When they catch up, I shove them back farther and sprint the other way. Because being numb is hard as hell. (If he could do it, I can do it). But it’s definitely easier than having to carry the weight of the feelings that I’ve become so scarily good at repressing, the feelings that will knock me down if I stop running. So I don’t stop running. And I go through the motions.Peter tries to stay strong like Tony, but he's not quite sure how.





	Eccedentesiast

**Author's Note:**

> Eccedentesiast means "person who fakes a smile."  
> This is based on something I saw on Instagram. It's sort of bad and I don't think I nailed Pepper's character, but I tried my best so don't hate me. ((Also I sort of made Pepper a mother figure to Peter. I feel like she would want to take care of him because she knew how much he meant to Tony.))

_If he could do it, I can do it._ That’s what I tell myself when I’m isolating my emotions, ignoring them as they try to catch up to my rapid pace. When they gain speed, I break into a run. When they catch up, I shove them back farther and sprint the other way. Because being numb is hard as hell. (If _he_ could do it, _I_ can do it). But it’s definitely easier than having to carry the weight of the feelings that I’ve become so scarily good at repressing, the feelings that will knock me down if I stop running. So I don’t stop running. And I go through the motions.

     I open my locker, place my books in gently (if I drop them people will stare). Slam the door shut (loud but not _too_ loud). Force a smile (pray that no one can see through it). And I carry on with my day (And I keep running).

     I count my steps as I go to class, trying to keep myself on the ground, but it feels like it’s shaking beneath my feet. The screech of my shoes on the linoleum tile shreds my ears. I pretend not to care. (I keep running).

     One. _Squeak._ Two. _Squeak._ Three. _Squeak._

     I’m still counting when I hear her. A girl, talking with her friend. It’s mostly meaningless chatter, carbon copies of conversations I’ve learned to block out of my dialed up senses. But then she says “ I mean it’s so crazy. They went to space,  _space!_  That’s so cool, and so far away, how’d they ever get home?” And my stomach drops. (I run faster).

     I shouldn’t react to it. (If he could do it, I can do it). I’m not supposed to let it get me. (But I can’t do it). I’m supposed to shut up and stay strong and not have a breakdown. I’m supposed to be a hero. (I’m supposed keep running). But right now everything just hurts so much all the time (and my legs are tired). Panic burns through my chest, leaving me breathless and gasping and quickly stumbling into the bathroom.

     I slip into the stall. I shut the door. (I stop running). My heart hammers in my chest and it’s loud, loud, loud. It beats in my ears, throbbing, convulsing. I rest my forehead on the cool wall. My stomach churns, my chest sizzles, I might throw up. (the impact is even worse than I feared, memories hitting me like tons of bricks. I fall. I can’t get up. I can’t run). My head spins and my mind spirals (I’m supposed to stay strong, I’m supposed to be a hero, I’m supposed to keep running). I feel the tears before they even cloud my eyes. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.) They sting and I try (I really try, I swear) to blink them away. I frantically grapple for my phone. Digging through my pockets with increasing urgency. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ )

     When I finally find it and manage to pull it out, I swipe it open, trying to breathe. (Who can I call, who can I call, who can I call?)

     I scroll through my contacts. (May? No, she’s a work, I can’t call her at work. She doesn't need to worry about me). The bell ring, echoey and piercing. I scroll. (Ned? He’s in class, someone else, someone else, someone else). I feel like I’m on fire. I scroll. (MJ? She’s in class too. Who can I call, who can I call, who can I call?) I find I name. I press on it without thinking. Then I wait a moment. And another moment. And another.

     The phone is ringing, pressed tight to my ear, it’s too loud. My chest is rattling and the phone shakes in my hands. I pull it away and look down at the screen.

      _Mr. Stark_ , the contact reads. (No, no, no, _no_ ). I can feel my heart shatter in my chest, it’s shards stabbing into me in sharp, cold, strokes, spreading through my whole body until I want to be numb again. I stare at the name for a moment, a long moment. Too long. (I can’t call Mr. Stark. He can’t pick up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry). I shakily go to hang up before I can hear the voice mail message. But then a voice comes through the phone.

     “Peter?” It’s Mrs. Potts. (She’s probably busy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry). I steady my voice, clear my throat, try to clear my head and say I’m the most relaxed way I can muster.

     “Mrs. Pep-erm-Mrs. Potts?”

     “Why did you call this number?” I feel another wave of panic erupt in me, but I force it down.

     “Um, no reason.” (Bad lie, bad lie, bad lie) “uh- I mean it was an accident. (Better).

     “Hon, you sound like your crying-“ (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry) “-are you sure you’re okay?”

     I inhale. “I’m fine.” (Liar, liar, liar) “Are you? Okay, I mean.” (Get it together Parker) “Are you okay?”

     “Peter.” She says, like she knows whats wrong. (There isn’t anything wrong. There can’t be anything wrong)

     “Hmm?”

     “You’re a good liar, I’ll give you that. But I married the best liar. And he’d kick my ass from the beyond if I didn’t do something to help you out right now.”

     I feel like the blood has been drained from my body. My chest aches. My muscles are sore. And I’m so, so tired.

     “I-I’m fine, Mrs. Pep- Potts. Really, I am. Thank-thank you for picking up. Sorry I called.”

     She starts to say something else but before she can finish I tap the screen and end the call. I let go of a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

     I wipe the tears off my skin, but more take their place almost instantly, blurring my vision and leaving tracks down my cheeks. I run my hands all over my face, breathing heavy. (My fault, my fault, my fault). I want to make the panic stop. I want to be who he wanted me to be. (I’m sorry) It’s so hard to be who he wants me to be. (I’m sorry). He wanted me to be better than him. (I’m sorry). But I’m weak, (I’m so, so weak) so I let the tears fall.

     My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance down and see Ned’s contact followed by a message that says ‘dude where are you? mr. benson’s gonna freak’ I shut it off try again to wipe away the streams down my face. I run my hands through my hair and shove down the panic. (Be cool, Parker, be cool).

     I quietly suck in a breath to not draw attention to anyone who may be lurking in the halls. (If I’m loud, people will stare) I open the door gently (loud but not too loud). I force a smile (pray that no one can see through it). And I exit the stall. And I stop in front of the mirror. And I look at myself. (Really, look at myself. I see my own hair and my own face and my own eyes and my own smile. But my hair is a mess, and my face looks like a mask, foreign and wrong where it sits, and there are bags that weigh heavy beneath my eyes, and my smile looks cracked and shaky, like my teeth are one wind away from shattering in my mouth, leaving sticky, swollen gums. I don’t see me so much as I see his shadow. Tony’s shadow. He always looked so tired. And I look so tired. And I am. I’m tired of smiling, I’m tired of running, I’m tired of being numb. I’m tired of forced laughs and cheap jokes that I can’t even feel. I’m tired of being strong. How did he do it? Always be so strong, always keep running? Did he feel like this? Like he was falling apart at the seams, fading away into the noise and forgetting who he was. Like every time he fell the weight of the world landed squarely on his shoulders, breaking his bones and make him sore all over but when he was done he had to stand back up again or it would prove he wasn't good enough, he wasn’t strong enough, he was weak. Did he feel weak?) And my face falls. I look a mess. And I am, I’m a huge mess (but at least that’s real, at least I’m here and I’m real and I’m solid. And I’m done with being strong.)

     I pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts. I land on his name. It sits there staring at me, blocky letters and a dumb picture. I blink at tears pooling in my eyes. I press call. Mrs. Potts picks up again.

     “Peter?”

     (It’s now or never, Parker) “Yeah. Hi” I don’t even bother masking the cracks in my voice. (C’mon, c’mon, c’mon). “I just wanted to say that. I’m sorry. I lied. And I know that you know that I lied. I’m not okay and I don’t think I have been for a while.”

     “Peter, you have nothing to apologize for. We’re all getting through this as best we can.” She says, “it doesn’t make you wrong to be sad. It doesn’t make you weak.”

     I smile. It’s a small smile, and my eyes are still red and my cheeks are still drenched. But it feels a little less forced. And a little more real.

     “Thank you. For saying that, all of it. I just- thank you.”

     “It’s really not a problem. And you may wanna head to the office.”

     “What? Why?”

     “I might have come to your school as soon as you hung up on me the first time. And I also I might not leave until you’re with me.”

     I giggle a little (for real), and my head hurts. “You really don’t have to do that Mrs. Potts.”

     “Well I’m here now,” she says, “and everybody deserves to have little break down now and then. It reminds us that we’re human.”

     “Yeah,” I say, really meaning it, “I guess it does. And I guess I’ll see you in a minute.”

     “I guess you will.”

     I swing my bag over my shoulder and look in the mirror one more time. I look a little more me. (Still tired, and sad, but not quite as empty.)

     I walk down to the office. (I don’t count my steps). The receptionist is sitting at her desk. She nods at me and smiles. I smile back (it’s small but I feel it). And then I see Mrs. Potts, and before I know it I’m walking up to her and giving her a hug. She seems startled at first but then smiles gently and returns the gesture like she knows exactly how to do it (and I guess she does, considering the fact that she has a daughter).

     “Thank you.” I mutter, sounding miserable and dried out and real.

     “Let’s get out of here, okay?” She mumbles softly into my hair.

     I just nod, feeling sleepy. She throws an arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the school and into a car in the parking lot. I rub my eyes with my hands, willing the tiredness away with no avail. Mrs. Potts swings open the door of a car, holding it open for me. I utter a thank you and plop down in the seat. My face still feels sticky and wet with tears that haven’t yet stopped forming. I sigh and rest my head on my arm as she sits down beside me, throwing the door open and letting a little bit of light in until it falls shut and the light is drowned out by darkness.

     “Do you want me to call your aunt?”

     I jump up, panic, again,  flaring in me. “No, no, no, no, no,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “I mean- it’s fine, I wouldn’t want her to worry about me. She already so busy anyway.”

     “I’m sure she already worries, Peter,” she says, “but if it makes you feel better, I won’t call.”

     (It does). “Thank you,” I say for what must be the millionth time today. She just nods. We sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s sort of calming, grounding me and making me feel better, though ugly thoughts still swim in my head and watery tears threaten my cheeks.

     “Do you wanna talk about it?” She says gently and suddenly.

     And I do. I do wanna talk about it. I wanna let it out. I want to seek advice. (But I shouldn’t). So I do.

     I inhale, choosing my words carefully. “It’s just hard, you know?” I say, staring down at my hands, my fingers fluttering and lacing and unlacing, my nails chewed down to the pink flesh. “It’s hard to do the things he-“ my voice nearly cracks here, but I hold it back. “-wanted me to do. It’s hard to be what he wanted me to be. The shoes I have to fill are just so ginormous and I feel so small. And he was always so good at keeping his cool.”

     “Let me tell you something, Peter. Tony Stark never once kept his cool.” She shifts to look at me, a little glint in her eyes. “He was good at playing the part, fake it 'til you make it was practically his life's motto. You shouldn't follow his footsteps exactly. You're too young for that much pressure. The world doesn’t need the next Iron Man. It needs Spiderman.”

     I scoff a little against my will. “What If Spiderman isn’t good enough?” I say, “what if he’s weak, and small, and naive? What’s the world gonna want then?”

     “Look, Tony made a lot of mistakes. Treating his emotions like carrying luggage was definitely one of those. You can’t just run away from your problems, Peter. There’s a point where you have to stop, plant your feet, and face them head on. And it sucks.” She laughs, “it really, _super_ , sucks. But once its done you can let go. The past will always be a part of you, let yourself carry it proudly.”

     I feel tears on my cheeks. I feel them in my chest and in my throat. I feel hollowed out. “But I don’t wanna let go,” I say so quietly I barely hear myself. “I miss him _so_ much. It’s all too hard without him.” I’m almost sobbing at this point. And this is horrible and weak and embarrassing (But I can’t find it in myself to care).

     “It’s so hard.” I take my face in my hands. No filter, no fighting, I just let it flow out of me. I feel Mrs. Potts wrap an arm around me and I lean into it, pressing my face to her shoulder and crying and crying and crying until I feel like I have no tears left. And even then I sob, tearless, empty sobs that rattle my chest and make my head hurt.

     “I know,” Mrs. Potts says after a while, “I know.”

     And I believe her.

**Author's Note:**

> So that was that. Thanks for reading! Comment if you see any reason for me to take it down, want to suggest a prompt, or just feel like validating me. It's much appreciated :)


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